


Blue Lotus

by xenobia4



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Brother/Brother Incest, M/M, Sibling Incest, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-22
Updated: 2018-06-21
Packaged: 2019-05-26 17:12:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15005528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xenobia4/pseuds/xenobia4
Summary: Dean inhales the pollen of a Blue Lotus flower, causing his hormones to go into overdrive. Losing control of himself, he takes the only person around him, with no regard to the consequence.





	1. Chapter 1

Dean and Sam pushed their way through a crowd of people on a busy market street filled with vendors selling miscellaneous items ranging from baskets to voodoo. Neon signs were lighting windows for restaurants, bars, inside shops and the like, inviting anyone within a close proximity to come through. Peruvian bands were stationed on some of the corners, filling the streets with music, giving rise to people dancing in the street. Sam was trying not to fall too far behind Dean, keeping an eye on his brown bomber jacket as they moved through the marketplace. The older Winchester held a brown bag tightly in his hand, keeping it tucked under his arm; every once in a while, he would glance behind him to make sure Sam was still within view. The items in the bag they had purchased at a stand selling items used in Pagan and Wiccan rituals; during the last hunt, a few items had been destroyed in the crossfire and Dean was desperate to replace them before John was due back in three days.

Falling too far behind, Sam lost sight of his brother and began shoving passed people trying to get to him. When he still could not see his brother’s jacket, he stopped short, standing on the side of the street, eyes darting around. Standing in spot, it was much more likely for Dean to notice his fifteen-year-old brother was gone and turn around. He moved to the side of the street and shoved his hands into the pockets of his gray hoody, keeping his eyes opened for sight of his brother. Seeing the chance for a possible buyer, one of the street vendors took advantage of the situation and approached him. It was an elderly Egyptian man, dressed in a traditional gallibaya, holding a cloth bag that held the money he had made thus far.

“Ah, good evening, sir,” they said, enthusiastic with a heavy accent; though Sam doubted the accent was legit. “You seem like a good person – good judgment,” he spoke quickly, wrapping his arm around Sam’s shoulders and walking him over to his stand. “I can see you know truth; I promise that the items you see before you are all legit and true Egyptian.” Sam’s eyes cast over his shoulder, waiting for the man to drop his arm. His eyes scanned the items laid out. Ankhs, scriptures, vials, scrolls and the like were on a red, cloth tarp.

“I’m really not interested,” he replied, but the man did not seem bent on taking no for an answer.

“You will be!” He took his arm back and picked up a cloth bag; he opened it and sprinkling a light blue powder onto his hand. “You are a boy of age, making this to be perfect.” Sam glanced to it, but still shook his head. “Heka has blessed this, good sir. You can have anyone of your desire.”

Sam frowned. “So, what? It’s like some Ancient Egyptian love powder?” Sarcasm filled his tone. He looked at the other items, hands fumbling around with an inscribed ankh.

The man held the hand holding the bag up and waved it, keeping the hand that had some of the powder still. “It is not confused with fake magic. From the Nile, it is from the Blue Lotus.”

Sam traced his eyes to it, still with little interest. As he was about to tell the man, once again, that he was not interested, he felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see Dean standing behind him.

“Dude, I told you not to fall behind.” He looked up at the Egyptian man. “We’re not interested in any of your knock-offs. Come on, Sam.” He pulled to turn his brother, but the man stopped them.

“I can assure you that they are real, sir. I would not sell you something I would not as quickly sell to my mother.”

Dean held his hand and waved it. “No, thanks. We’re good.” He turned with Sam, but, again, the man called him back. “Look!” Dean spat, spinning around. “Back of—”

The man caught him off guard and Dean was introduced to a face-full of blue powder being blown at him. He started coughing and stepped back to get away from the cloud. Eyes squinting from the powder, his initial response was to hit the man across the face; sensing that was what would happen if he did not intervene, Sam grabbed Dean’s arm and started to pull him away. They were shoving passed people to get out of the marketplace; Dean kept rubbing his eyes and coughing every once and a while, which had people avoid them, thinking that he was ill. They finally made it to the edge of the street where it was fairly empty. One of the street bands, that had been playing jazz when they first arrived, was now packing up their instruments.

Dean rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands.

“God, the crap burns,” he said, sounding as though he had a cold. He inhaled and looked up, eyes squinting towards the sky. “What the hell was that crap?” He blinked, eyes filling with water from the irritation.

Sam watched his nineteen-year-old brother try to refrain from rubbing his eyes. “Blue Lotus powder,” he found himself saying, somewhat surprising himself that he had been paying attention.

“Blue Lotus,” Dean muttered, wiping the water under his eyes as he grabbed Sam’s shoulder and gave him a light push to start walking. “Sounds like some kinda sex drug.” He rubbed the corner of his eye, moving the lid without actually rubbing his eye. “Shit, damn itch. I need to get this crap out of my eyes.”

Outside of the marketplace, there was a fountain turned on, lights underneath the water radiating different colors. It was half a block from the motel they had been staying at, which Sam noted to wait instead of doing what Dean was thinking of. His brother paid him no heed and moved to the fountain, leaned over the edge, cupped his hands in the water and splashed it onto his eyes, trying to wash the powder out. Sam’s face was overcome with disgust and disbelief.

“You realize people probably urinate in that, right?”

Dean pulled up, contemplating it; water dripped off of his face, lightly dripping onto the edge of the fountain below. He peered over his shoulder to look at Sam, shrugging. “Too late, now.” Sam rolled his eyes as Dean stood straight. “Besides,” he wiped the water from his face, “I think I got most of it.”

Sam merely shook his head as a crooked grin graced his face. He moved away from the fountain, checked his pocket to make sure the brown paper bag was still in his possession, patted Sam on the shoulder and began walking back towards the motel. This time, Sam stayed next to him, but that was mainly because they were talking about random matters, mainly when their father would come back and what they intended to do in the meantime, and because of Sam’s growing concern when Dean kept rubbing his eyes, moving to rub his temples. He said he was fine when Sam kept asking if he was okay, but his little brother was still concerned even after they were back in the room to the motel.

Dean tossed the bag on the bed the moment they were through the door and tossed off his jacket, releasing an exhale as though he was overheated.

“Damn, it’s hot in here. Is there and air conditioner in this place?” He looked to Sam who was now standing next to a built-in system that was under the window.

“How far you want it down?”

“As far as it can go.”

Sam shot him a look. “It’ll be freezing!” Seeing Dean’s expression, Sam released a sigh and complied. It kicked on and he stepped away from it.

Dean nodded thanks, right before he shook and held his head, rubbing his temple with his palm. Sam’s look was uneasy.

“You okay?”

Dean nodded his head, switching to rubbing his eye. “Yeah. Just that damn powder I think gave me a headache.” He inhaled and cleared his throat, bringing his hand down and blinking. He gave it a moment and seemed to be fine, but he quickly went back to rubbing his eyes, this time with both hands. “Goddamn it! Where the hell’s that guy get off?”

“You gonna be all right?” Sam reiterated, but Dean just nodded his head again.

“I’ll be fine; don’t worry about it. I gotta get this crap off of me, though,” he said as he grabbed clothes from his black duffle bag. He looked to Sam, his eyes red from a combination of the irritation of the powder and from rubbing them. “Get the stuff put away, all right?” He seemed content when Sam gave the affirmation and went into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. Sam looked at the brown bag on the bed and released a sigh. He snatched it and walked to the green bag that held weaponry and other items wrapped in clothes. He took the items out, made sure they were properly secured so as not to crack or break, and tucked them back where the originals had been.

While he waited for Dean to get out of the shower, he moved and flopped down onto the bed. He twisted to grab the pillow sitting against the headboard to have something to lie on after he turned the television on and flipped through channels. He set the remote next to him once the channel settled on something interesting: a program on National Geographic discussing the findings of burial sites in founds in Egypt. The room was filling with cold air, leaving him to grab the comforter and use part of it to cover himself. The television show was nearly halfway over when Dean finally stepped out of the bathroom, clad in his jeans and white t-shirt; his eyes seemed distant, pupils dilated as he looked around the room. It appeared to take him a moment to register Sam was lying on the bed, not paying him much attention. When he did not hear anything from his brother, Sam glanced at him and sat up, tossing the cover off of him.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, noting the almost clueless look in the other’s eyes. Sam knitted his eyebrows together when Dean just stared blankly at him, as though he did not understand why Sam was even in the room. “Dean,” he started, climbing off of the bed. “Are you feeling okay?” When Dean continued to stare at him without saying a word, Sam crossed the room to stand in front of him, face riddled with concern. “Dean?”

Dean kept looking at him and it was then that Sam realized Dean’s entire body was tense, his jaw clenched tightly as a slight tremble rattled through his body; his shoulders were up with the same ferocity they would be up as though he was trying to fight back an urge to hit something. When Sam called his brother’s name one more time, he reached out to touch his arm. The moment contact was made, Dean jerked his arm back, expression becoming hostile as he grabbed Sam’s upper arms and turned to shove him against the wall of the room. Sam stood stunned at the reaction, eyes wide. Once the initial shock wore off, he brought up his arm to grab Dean’s wrist to twist it and pull him off. Before he was able to get that far, Dean used his hand to grab Sam’s wrist and bang his hand and arm against the wall, sending a painful shock through his arm. His grip was tight, digging into his brother’s arms the more Sam tried pulling away.

“Dean! Stop!” he shouted, face showing the pain his brother was causing. “What the hell’s wrong with you?!” Dean did not verbally respond and leaned down to press his mouth to Sam’s neck, biting and sucking at the skin. “Get off!” Sam brought up his leg to deliver a hard kick to his brother’s stomach, making him let go and pull back, arms wrapping around his abdomen. Sam quickly moved away from Dean’s reach, eyes wide as he watched Dean groan.

The older Winchester brought his head up to look at Sam with a creased forehead as his eyebrows went up, looking remorseful. “Sammy,” he spoke, sounding almost like a whine. His pupils started to go back to normal, face showing painful regret. “I’m sorry. I don’t”—he swallowed and jerked his head away, clamping his eyes shut—“know what’s going on.” He moved his hand to hold his head. “God, my head hurts. Feels like my brain’s going to explode.” Sam’s jaw was tight as he watched his brother sounding as though he was about to cry – something he had never heard in his voice.

Swallowing hard, he tried to approach him again, this time with caution. Hand shaking, he reached out again to set it on Dean’s shoulder. His brother turned to look at him, eyes red, expression pained. “It’s the powder, Dean,” he drew out, trying to keep his voice even. He was not even one hundred percent certain that was what it was, but it was the only thing that made sense. “The steam from the shower probably made your skin absorb it,” he found himself explaining the only logical explanation.

Dean groaned loudly and faced the floor, still hunched over. Sam looked at him, worry still blatant on his face. Dean took a few deep inhales; blowing out the last one, he spoke, “Sam”—Sam nodded and made a noise in his throat to signal for him to continue—“I’m sorry.” Sam pressed his eyebrows together as Dean looked back up at him, pupils completely dilated.

Sam immediately stepped backwards, shoulders going back in a defensive stance. Before he was even able to turn, Dean was standing straight and took a step towards him, grabbing his wrist and pulling his brother to him. Sam’s initial response was to swing his arm and elbow him in the larynx, the same way he would get away from a demon; but Dean grabbed his arm just as he got it close and twisted it behind his back. He bent down to bite Sam’s neck again, this time deeply inhaling his scent when his mouth made contact. When Sam began jerking his other wrist to pull it free, Dean did the same thing as he had done with his other arm; he switched it to his other hand, holding both of his brother’s wrists tightly behind his back with only his left hand. The gap between them was not far enough for Sam to kick again, but he did try to bring his knee up. Still, Dean was too close. He started yelling at Dean to stop, jerking to get free. Dean used his free hand to grab Sam’s groin and give it a harsh squeeze before he began unbuttoning and unzipping his brother’s jeans.

“Dean! Don’t!” he shouted at him, body twisting in unnatural positions as he tried to get away.

He was able to free his left hand, but the moment he did, Dean lifted up and gave Sam a harsh shove towards the bed. Sam tried to keep his balance as his legs hit up against the end of the bed, but his footing faltered and he wound up falling backwards onto the mattress. He scrambled to a sitting position to move off, but Dean was on top of him before he even had the chance. He went to kick him, but Dean was straddling his hips, keeping his legs trapped. He grabbed his wrists when Sam tried to punch him and pinned them to the bed. Just as he had done before, he switched to holding them with one hand above his brother’s head. Despite Sam constantly twisting underneath him, Dean started tracing his mouth down his neck and collarbone, his other hand continuing to try and take the restraints of Sam’s jeans off.

“It’s not you! Dean!”

For a moment, the realization seemed to set in and Dean pulled up, trying to fight the urge coursing through him. He stared down at Sam, eyes glazing over as his pupils started to become smaller. The strength of his grip burrowed it into Sam’s head that, whatever part of him Dean was trying to fight, the logical side was losing. He jerked his head, pupils growing large again, his eyes narrowing.

“Shut up!” he yelled at him, stunning his younger brother. He grabbed Sam’s face with his free hand and leaned down, face millimeters away. “Shut. The fuck. Up.”

With that said, he shoved their mouths together; his hand released its grip on Sam’s face and, instead of working with his now undone jeans, started unzipping Sam’s hoody and ran his hand up his shirt, baring his abdomen. Sam lifted up, trying to move to the side and roll out from under his brother’s weight, the same tactic he was taught to do if someone or something ever had him pinned in a similar circumstance. Unfortunately, Dean was used to those methods, having taught them to Sam himself. The aggravation at Sam’s attempts to free himself was blatant on his face, so he grabbed Sam’s shoulder and flipped him onto his abdomen. He started pulling off Sam’s hoody and, to continue, he had to release his grip on the other’s wrists, to which Sam was hoping to use to his advantage. However, his plan failed, whereas the hoody constricted his arms and Dean used the clothing to bind his forearms and tie them behind his back. He started kicking, yelling until his face was red for Dean to stop, that it was not him and to fight it.

“Please!” he shouted, voice somewhat muffled by being half-shoved into the pillow.

Dean pressed himself to Sam’s back, eyes closed as he took in the scent of his hair, one hand holding his shoulder while the other began pulling Sam’s jeans down. He had to lift himself slightly off of Sam to get his jeans just to his knees, but it was far enough. 

Sam’s breath hitched in his throat when he felt Dean press his groin against his backside. “Dean, don’t do this!” His entire face was red as he began pleading for Dean to stop, but to no avail. He could hear the sound of jeans being undone and was about to become hysterical. “No!” He started screaming, trying and saying anything to get through to Dean at what he was about to do. Dean pressed his length against Sam’s buttocks, releasing a deep-pitted groan. Before he even continued, it sunk into Sam’s head how badly he was crying and rapidly begging over and over for him to stop. His words fell flat as Dean moved, positioned himself and, in one harsh and rough movement, completely shoved himself inside his brother, forcing a loud yell from his brother’s throat.

With no preparation, with no lubricant, the dry skin on Dean’s groin scraped the insides of the tight rectum, not even giving it a chance for the muscles to relax as he nearly pulled out only to shove himself right back in. Sam felt as though his insides were being split in half, the pressure from the force mounting in his stomach. Dean pressed his hand between Sam’s shoulder blades as he kept pulling out and shoving crudely back in, not paying any attention to the skin scraping skin or the pain his brother was experiencing beneath him. Sam’s cries went unheard and he only continued to plead for Dean to stop.

In the middle of taking a sharp inhale, he could hear Dean muttering “so good” over and over. Sam squirmed, trying to bend his legs to sit on his knees so he could move away, but the combination of Dean pressing down on his back and the weakness he was experiencing in his legs, his attempts failed. He bit back the urge to shout out again when he finally managed to curl his knees underneath him and dig them into the mattress to gain a little bit of leverage. His face was contorted in pain, his chin set on the pillow as tried to pull away, but Dean only took advantage of his position and moved his hands to grab his hips, forcing him to be pulled back as he burrowed himself as deeply as he could. The shout that Sam had been trying to hold back was released, broken and shaking, calling out Dean’s name again and again.

A thousand and one things he had been trained for, trained to get out of, how to fight back, what to do, and this was not one of them – it was never even a consideration in anyone’s mind.

“D-ean”—his breath caught in his throat, coming out broken—“pl-ease—!” He tugged at the hoody binding his arms, only gaining a pain shooting through his shoulder from twisting it in the wrong direction.

Blood began dripping down the inside of his thighs and the feeling sickened him as he felt it trickle down his leg. Dean leaned forward, wrapping his arms around his chest and stomach, eyes shut, groaning as he thrust in. Pulling and leaning back, he pulled Sam with him, holding him on top of him, arms tightly around his stomach, leaving the fifteen-year-old to fall against him, body trembling. Despite the pain and the consistent begging for it to stop, Sam’s body unwillingly aroused from the sensitive prostate being stimulated again and again. He shook, throat turning raw from the constant yelling and head falling back onto Dean’s shoulder. The oldest seemed so focused, hitting inside him in awkward angles, making shock radiate up and down Sam’s spine. Sam felt pressure build up in his stomach from the pain and he still tried to push away, but Dean kept him mounted in the same position, with no hints of letting up.

“…my stomach….”

His voice trailed out in the mixture between a whisper and a whine. The only response he received was Dean continuously muttering "so good."

Somewhere between the continuous thrusts and cries, Sam had stopped fighting, his body going limp as it moved in-sync with Dean’s actions. There were several positions that he had been moved into, each time he was not given the slightest bit of reprieve. His insides burned and his stomach felt as though it would burst at any moment, but the only thing he could think to do was to let whatever was in the powder leave Dean’s system. Not that his lack of energy helped any. It had gotten to the point that, even if the chance to get away presented itself, he would not have the vitality to do it. He did not remember it stopping before falling out of consciousness, his body too fatigued to stay cognizant.


	2. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean inhales the pollen of a Blue Lotus flower, causing his hormones to go into overdrive. Losing control of himself, he takes the only person around him, with no regard to the consequence.

**2**

Dean groaned, brain pounding against his skull, radiating down his neck. He shifted slightly. Feeling a body beneath him, his eyebrows furrowed, trying to recall who he had fallen asleep with. He could not remember picking up anyone. He clenched his eyes before slowly opening them. The room blurred, slowly coming into focus and, once it set in that it was their motel room, he could not think of bringing someone back to the room. He shut his eyes and pressed against the person’s body, slowly turning his head to press it against the other’s soft hair. He inhaled the scent, knitting his brows again when the smell was familiar. He opened his eyes back and brought his hand to run it through and move their hair; his heart fell into his stomach when he saw the sleeping form of his brother’s face.

He inhaled sharply and pushed himself up on his arms, groaning when a light pain throbbed in his lower back. Mind screaming at him, he slowly brought his gaze down. Vomit rose in the back of his throat – he was still inside his brother. Heart pounding in his chest, he slowly pulled out, cringing as the raw skin of his length scraped the raw insides of his brother, but Sam did not even move in the slightest. Hesitating, he reached his hand down to lightly grip Sam’s shoulder.

“…Sammy?” He lightly shook him, eyes moving to trace the bruises lining his neck. “Oh, god….” His eyes began to sting as the consciousness of what happened began to set in. “No…no, no, no.”

His mind flashed back. He could see himself attacking Sam, on top of him and forcing himself inside of him. For hours he had kept going, long after Sam was incoherent and lifeless. He also recalled being unable to stop himself, no matter how much he willed it or how much he had been screaming at himself.

It was his brother.

His goddamn brother.  

Eyes burning red, he slowly traced his hands down, hovering over his brother’s still-bound arms. He had to bite back the emotions flooding through his head as his shaking hands tried to untie the gray hoody; the clothing was tighter than he thought and, once he finally managed to unwrap it, Sam’s arms fell to his sides. He threw it off to the side and immediately grabbed Sam’s shoulder again, this time slowly turning him onto his side.

Still, he did not move.

The fact his chest was still moving was a slight bit of relief, but it did not change the cement in his stomach. He leaned up to get off of him and zip himself up, eyes darting around, trying to take in the scene around him. There was no light leaking in through the small gap in the curtains, proving it was still dark out and when his eyes quickly ran over the clock on the bedside table, it was shining a little after five in the morning. He tried to remember what time they had gotten back from the marketplace and could not think it to have been any later than nine; which raised the question: how long had it been? He leaned over Sam and rolled him onto his back, but not before his eyes caught the bruising on upper back.

“Sam?” he spoke in a low whisper, trying to keep his voice from shaking. He took his hands off of him, eyes wide in shock as they traced the marks on Sam’s neck, the bruising on his upper arms and the nail marks on his sides and hips. He began blinking rapidly, trying to keep the water filling his eyes from falling. “God…Sammy,” he fell out in another whisper as he touched the side of Sam’s head. “I’m sorry.” He swallowed the lump in his throat, eyes constantly moving to the bite marks and hickies on his brother’s neck. He could not even recall causing most of them, and some of them were nearly black. When his eyes went further, the emotions he kept trying to bite back finally gave way as they landed on the bruising in between his thighs. Dried blood and semen caked on the inside of his legs and, upon seeing it, his breath caught in his throat. “I’m gonna get you cleaned up, okay, Sammy?” he spoke with a forced smile, as though trying to reassure himself that Sam was going to be all right, but his eyebrows creasing his forehead as his red eyes gave way.

He ran his hand quickly through Sam’s knotted hair before getting up and moving over to the bathroom, making sure to grab the empty ice bucket from the top of the table just outside the restroom. He tossed a clean, still-folded washcloth into the bucket as he waited for the water to heat up. While he waited for it, used a soaked hand towel to clean himself up, then tossed it onto the floor in the pile with an already-soiled towel from the previous day. Once the water was up to temperature, he shoved the bucket under the faucet and leaned on the sink, bringing his head up to stare at his own, tired reflection in the small mirror. The pain in his lower back was lightly throbbing and, along with soreness from his groin, was a constant reminder. When Sam woke up, he did not even know what to do or what to say.

What was there to say?

His thoughts were cut short when he brought his gaze down to turn off the water and grab the bucket, leaving the restroom. Sam had shifted and was curled into the fetal position, still asleep. Dean sighed and walked next to the bed, set the bucket on the bedside table and sat on the edge, his hand on the side of Sam’s head. Soft eyes gazed at him, remorse hazing over.

“We’ll clean you up and you’ll be good as new, all right?” his voice shook and he brought his hand up to wipe a drop that fell down his cheek. He inhaled and took his hand away and reached his hand into the bucket. The hot water was a nice welcome, but it made him feel worse.

Being able to feel anything seemed wrong.

Shaking his head, he carefully rolled Sam back onto his back, inwardly cringing at the thought of the bruises he was undoubtedly putting pressure on. As lightly as he could, he touched Sam’s lower thigh to put it into a bend to spread his legs. His head glanced up to look at Sam’s face and make sure he was not waking him; the only response he garnered was Sam’s face showing pain as he turned his head to the side, right before he went calm. Dean’s shoulders were tense as he began wiping the dried fluids from the inside of his brother’s thighs, keeping back the vomit trying to rise in his throat, knowing that part of it was his own. Sam stayed still as Dean cleaned him up, and he was trying to keep in his mind that he had changed his diaper more than once when he was much, much younger.

For some reason, that line of thought made his stomach churn.

The washcloth made a small splash as it was tossed back into the bucket. Putting his hand on his knees, Dean pushed himself to a stand, walked to the chair where some of Sam’s clothes were strewn about and sifted through them to find what his brother had been sleeping in. Gray sweatpants and a large yellow shirt, one Dean had given to him after his other shirt had become bloodstained after an attack a few weeks prior. Sam groaned when Dean moved his legs to dress him, but he went still just as quickly. Dean had to sit him up to get his shirt off so he could put the other one on, and his first thought was that there would be no way Sam could sleep through it; his surprise came when his brother’s body was able to be manipulated like a ragdoll.

The air of relief was quickly replaced with guilt.

Sam was usually woken up by the slightest movement. The trauma his body had gone through for him to stay unconscious….

Keeping him in a sitting position, Dean worked around him to get the covers out from underneath him. Slowly laying him back down, he lifted his legs to get the rest of the covers from under him before covering him with the sheets. Sam shifted once he was covered and grabbed the covers to entangle himself as he rolled onto his side. Seeing his face peaceful, being around him was too much to handle.

He needed air – needed to clear his head.

He grabbed his coat and, taking one last glance to Sam, left the motel room, walking out onto the early morning streets.

* * *

Blue flashed in front of blackness.

Sam’s voice echoed, screaming for Dean to stop.

Red mixed into the blue, creating a dark purple swirl on the dark canvas.

“I’m sorry,” Dean’s voice echoed, but it seemed so far away.

The liquid vanished and only darkness remained, but Sam found himself saying the only thing he could think of:

“It’s okay.”

His eyes opened and he was introduced to staring at the table by the wall with items scattered about it. It took a moment for him to register where he was and, once that happened, light memories of the previous night came back and he clamped his eyes shut, trying to will them away. They came back full-throttle when he rolled onto his back and pain shot up and down his spine. His eyes welled up without his consent from the throbbing sensations radiating from his legs to his shoulders. He shut his eyes, waiting for the pain to fade. He became curious when it registered that there was silence in the room, other than the running air conditioner. His eyelids lifted up and he stared at the ceiling, listening for the bathroom fan.

Still silence.

He tried to sit up, cringing and releasing a groan mixed with a whine as he did. The covers fell off of him and chill bumps rose on his arms from the cold air filling the room. His stomach turned over and he wrapped his arm over his abdomen, feeling a painful pressure in his lower stomach. When he opened his eyes back, he noticed that he was not wearing the same clothes he had been, but the clothes he usually slept in. He grabbed a fistful of the cloth of the shirt and looked around the room for any trace of Dean. The only thing he noticed was that it was a little past ten-thirty in the morning and there was noise of people talking outside. If it was not for the effects rattling his body, he would have been questioning if last night had even happened.

His stomach groaned as it twisted and he wrapped both of his arms around his abdomen, groaning from the pressure. He tossed the rest of the covers off of him and slowly moved his legs over the edge of the bed, trying to bite back the cry begging to escape as shocks went up and down his spine. His shoulders and back ached and, when he tried to stand, his legs nearly gave out from under him. He kept himself standing and made his way to the bathroom, a slight limp in his step. Once he was in the bathroom, he shut the door and leaned onto the sink, clamping his eyes shut when his stomach turned over and growled. The pressure made it feel as though his insides were about to explode and he fell into a crouch, one arm wrapped around his stomach as his other hand gripped the sink.

* * *

“Have a good one.”

Dean nodded his thanks as the woman handed him the paper bag over the table. He gave her a small smile in response to the overzealous one she gave and turned his back to her, leaving the small bakery stand. The market street was a complete contrast to how it had been last night: where it had been crowded with people ready for a night out, now it was filled with shoppers and tourists; the only music on the streets was from one band playing Arabic-styled music outside of a boutique. A guitar case was opened in front of them; bills and change covered the base of it from people giving charity.

A sigh escaped from Dean’s throat as he rolled the top of the bag to keep it closed. The last thing on his mind was food, and he was certain Sam’s state was much the same, but it would give him some form of excuse as to why he left and, in a pathetic attempt, was a way to show some form of remorse and be apologetic. The thoughts in his head would not stop and continued to call him a repulsive freak; how could he do that to his brother; he should have been able to stop himself; and, because he was unable to, something inside him wanted to do it. That thought made him sick to his stomach and his eyes sting.

An electric jolt shot through his head and he held his head, pressing down on the section the pain emitted from. The image of Sam in hysterics, face down on the bed, begging for Dean to stop ran across his mind; he could hear Sam’s voice echo through his head.

He was supposed to watch after his little brother – take care of him, _protect him_.

How could he even look Sam in the face?

Sam was going to hate him – and damn right he should.

He passed by the area where the Egyptian man’s stand had been last night. It was empty, now, but shear detest formed in his gut as he recalled the blue powder being blown into his face. Anger rose within him at the memory and he begged to run into that man. If he had not infected Dean with that powder, nothing would have happened and he and Sam would have spent last night watching a crappy movie on the motel’s Pay-Per-View while dining on bad fast-food. That was what they would have done and what should have been done.

The fountain came into view and, a block later, he was standing in the motel parking lot. He kept staring down the long line of doors on the first floor, eyes trailing all of the way to the door that led to their room. It had been a few hours and he knew that, by now, Sam would be awake. Part of him loathed the thought of returning and having to face him; whereas the other part of him was yelling at him for not staying by Sam’s side and being there when he woke up – abandoning him, as his brain decided to word it. As he slowly began walking down the sidewalk to the room, the latter part got to him more and he began regretting leaving. He should have stayed, instead of running off like a frightened child and leaving Sam alone with no support. Then again, how could he support him when he was the one that caused him pain in the first place?

Nothing was making sense.

When he reached the door, he fumbled around with the key in his pocket, turning it over instead of inserting it into the lock. His hesitation kept him standing outside for a few minutes; the only reason he finally took his key out and unlocked the door was because one of the people from another room was watching him curiously after they had come out to go to their car. When he entered the room and shut the door behind him, the first thing he noticed was the room vacant, the bathroom door closed and he could hear the shower running. He sighed and set the bag of baked bread on the dresser the television sat on before sliding off his jacket and throwing it on the chair by the door. He sat on the edge of the bed, set his elbows on his knees and ran his hands through his hair to sit on the back of his neck as he listened to the running water. Inhaling, he sat up, and then fell back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. It could have only have been a few minutes before the water was shut off and he heard the sound of the shower curtain moving on the rod. Apprehension built and his heart rushed just at the thought of having to face his brother; he still did not even know what to say. He tried to think of something – anything, but everything that entered his head seemed stupid and pointless. Words could not change it and could not cover what had happened.

As the door to the bathroom finally clicked open after a few minutes passed, Dean sat back up, his head turning to face the door. Sam came out of the bathroom clad in jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt; his damp hair stuck to his neck and forehead; a slight limp in his walk had Dean stand up from reflex – his usual concern for his brother’s well-being running through his head. In any other scenario, seeing his brother move around in awkward pain would have him infuriated and wanting to beat the ever-living hell out of whomever or whatever caused it; the will to beat the hell out of himself was an idea; or perhaps to go out and find someone to kick the hell out of him.

Sam turned the corner to see him and stopped, as though trying to register that he was in the room. His eyes were unwavering and the air in the room filled with tense discomfort and Dean could only stare back, wanting to say something to break the tension, but he could not think of anything. Sam’s view dragged across the room, avoiding Dean’s gaze, and nodded to the paper bag sitting on the dresser.

“Food?”

Dean glanced over his shoulder to it, stumbling over his own words just to reply, “Uh…yeah.”

Sam nodded an okay and moved over to it; Dean could only watch him as his brother began sifting through the bag, nearly dumbstruck. Was he trying to act as though nothing had happened? The thought made Dean’s blood boil – he needed Sam to yell at him. The caught glimpse of black and purple marks on his brother’s neck caused his chest to sink and only reinforced the feelings of irritation. His eyebrows were causing creases in his forehead seeing Sam pull out a sweet roll and pull a piece off.

How was he able to eat?

The mere thought of food made his stomach turn.

He watched Sam walk from the dresser to the bed, trying to force himself not to walk with a gimp. He sat down, head facing his lap as he kept picking off chunks of the roll, avoiding Dean’s prying eyes. He only had one bite left when Dean could no longer stand the avoidance and the silence.

“Sam…,” he drew out. Sam’s eyes slowly drew up to him, but avoided making contact. “I—” He found himself unable to get out any more than that.

Sam shrugged his shoulders and looked back at the roll to take the last bite. “Don’t worry about it,” his brother ended up saying quickly in a dismissive manner.

Though he could not understand why, Sam’s attitude triggered an aggravated and annoyed response from Dean, who was digging his nails into his palms. Sam did not seem to notice the reaction, whereas he just continued staring down at his lap, playing with the empty piece of paper in his hands. Dean could not take it, anymore. The feelings boiling inside him had him ready to explode. Perhaps that was why he completely lost it at that moment.

“What’s wrong with you?!” Dean found himself shouting. “Why won’t you get mad?! Scream at me! Yell at me! Tell me how much you hate me and that you never want to see me again! Just…stop acting like everything’s okay….”

Sam stayed silent, making Dean’s apprehension stay vibrant, his shoulders hunched up and face red. The seconds seemed to turn into minutes as he stood there, watching his brother fiddle around with the balled up paper in his hands from the empty roll.

Silence had never been so loud before.

It was almost deafening.

That was until Sam finally came out with: “…I can’t.”

Dean’s entire expression dropped, face in awe. “What?” He watched as Sam shook his head lightly; still constantly turning the paper around in his hands, trying to get rid of the awkward tension rising in his body.

“I don’t blame you, Dean,” Sam drew out, staring down at the empty paper he held in his lap. Dean could only stare back at him in regret, awe and a slight bit of aggravation. Before he had a chance to comment, Sam shook his head and stared up at him, eyes tired. “It wasn’t your fault.”

Dean released a growl. “How can you say that, Sam? After I—” He could not even finish his sentence and set his hands on his hips, pulling his head away for a moment, then looking back at Sam, looking as though he might break down.

Sam only stared back at him, eyes shimmering. “Because I know you, that’s why. And you wouldn’t hurt me.” Dean could only gawk at him in disbelief. Sam shrugged at the expression. “Not intentionally, anyway. You’re my brother, and if I can’t trust you, then I can’t trust anyone. You always take care of me….” He stopped, a faint reassuring smile on his face with eyes still shining.

Seeing the expression of the Adoring Younger Brother playing on Sam’s features, Dean’s eyes began to burn and a tremble ran through him. How could Sam still look at him like that after what he had done? How was he able to stand being in the same room, acting as though Dean was not responsible?

It pissed him off.

Sam inhaled deeply, his chest shaking as he exhaled; his glazing eyes finally fell through, despite trying to stay strong. The reaction sent a pang to the older Winchester’s chest. “It’s okay.” Dean’s expression dropped. “It wasn’t your fault, Dean,” he repeated slowly, voice trembling. “It wasn’t your fault….” He finally pulled his gaze away from him and looked down, brought up his hand and wiped his face, not wanting Dean to see him in such a state. “I’m sorry,” he came out, an awkward, hitching laugh. “I’m sorry; I don’t mean to….”

Dean stood staring at him; he wanted to ask him why he was apologizing and yell at him to stop. Instead, his fists clenched at his sides, he shook his head and muttered, “Shut up….” Sam’s breath hitched again as he wiped his eyes with his palms, apologizing again. “Sammy”—after inhaling one more time, Sam brought his gaze up to look at Dean, who had drops on both cheeks—“just shut up.” Sam gave a questioning look as Dean dropped to his level, brought his arms up and wrapped his arms around Sam’s shoulders, pulling him into a tight hug. Hearing Dean’s voice shake and rattle, it took Sam a moment, but he brought up his own arms to return the embrace as Dean kept telling him to shut up over and over.

He just wished Sam would get mad at him, yell at him and tell him he hates him. In any other family, he would hate him, scream at him for being disgusting and to never touch him again. In any other situation, the last thing Sam would be saying was that it was all right and that it was not his fault.

Perhaps it was then that Dean started to understand how abnormal their small family was. 

…and just how fucked up their lives had truly become.

**~Fin**


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